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UNDETECTABLE

M. C. SOUTTER

Copyright 2011 M. C. Soutter


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Also by M. C. Soutter

Charcots GeniusSouthampton Spectacular


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For my sister Madora


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Part 1 Orientation


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Hes had his mind opened, the doctor said, spreading his arms wide. Give him a

week and youll see. Hell be ready.

Chisel-face leaned back in his chair. Better be. Otherwise, you're leaving our man

Billaud out in the cold, right?

Dont try to put this on me, youre

Im not putting it anywhere. I'm the point man on this thing, which means that

Pascal Billaud's safety is ultimately up to me. Whether Kevin is up to the task or not,

I'm the one who gets blamed. But make no mistake, I'm hoping you're right. I'm

hoping your big man Kevin is going to come through.

He is a big man, the doctor said.

This is a joke to you?

It is not. Just watch what my big man can do.

I will. Closely.


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Tuesday Morning

Over here!

Kevin Brooks opened his eyes and looked around him. Something some noise, a

shout or a greeting, the voice of an energetic young boy outside the room had

startled him. But the noise was irrelevant. The noise was not his problem.

Figuring out what Im doing here. Thats the problem.

He could not remember coming into this room.

Actually, he could not remember coming into this building.

He was in a classroom; that much was clear. He was sitting behind a large desk,

and there were twenty-five smaller, empty desks facing him. Five neat rows of five.

There were posters on the walls, each one depicting an educational goal in overly

enthusiastic terms.

Hooked on History! Energized by English! Mad about Math!

So yes, a classroom. But figuring this out did not make Kevin feel any better. In

fact, he noticed that his breath was suddenly short. There was a tightness in his chest,

a feeling very close to panic, as though he had only now realized that some unseen,unknowable danger was now crouching just outside the door. Immediate action of

some kind was required.

Im supposed to be doing something.

This thought came to him with such force, such overwhelming, white-hot clarity,

that his breath actually stopped briefly in his throat.

Something incredibly important.

Now, all at once, panic was not simply pushing on his chest. It was flooding

through him. His arms and legs were tingling, and his head throbbed with the rush of

his own blood. He worried he might pass out sitting right here in this chair, and the

total silence of the room somehow made it worse. Because whatever he was

forgetting, whatever he was supposed to do, he had no hope of remembering it here.

Not in this too-clean, too-orderly classroom with its perfectly spaced desks and its


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idealistic educational posters on the walls. He had never been here before he was

sure of that and there were no mnemonic hand-holds for him to grasp.

I need to get ready.

This idea came to him just as suddenly and clearly as the first. It hit him hard, and

it seemed to come from somewhere outside his head. It didnt even feel like his own

thought.

It felt like a command.

Get ready.

But for what?

Kevin shut his eyes. He tried to take a slow breath. To calm himself. Ready or not

panickedor not this way of thinking was getting him nowhere. He was a lost child

in a supermarket, running around and crying and bumping into things, and he was

only making things worse. He needed information.

So, back to the original problem: what was he doing here?

He was not a teacher. He could remember wanting to become a teacher, true. And

then, soon after, he could remember deciding to quit his job; this had happened

suddenly, without enough notice to satisfy the higher-ups at the brokerage where he

had been working, and they had been upset with him.

Very upset. He could remember that clearly enough.

He could also remember going to the educational testing center in that huge

building a few blocks south of Times Square, the one next to Madison Square Garden.

He had gone to the 14th floor, and they had sat him down at a computer and simply

told him to do his best. Kevin allowed himself a moment to relish the memory. He had

destroyed that test. He had destroyed allthe tests, in fact. The math, of course: he had

majored in Computer Science at UNH, and Comp Sci required all kinds of advanced

mathematics. But he had aced the English portions, too. And then the weird stuff

afterward. The brain teasers and the logic puzzles, and then even a bunch of questionsthat seemed borrowed from a state Bar exam. The people at the center had been

impressed at his scores, which was nice. They had come over to speak with him.

Very flattering.


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Then they had asked him to take a few more tests, this time in a different room.

Much more interesting questions in this round: lots of logic stuff again, but some of it

involving truly strange hypotheticals. It didnt matter; none of it had been hard for

him, and he could tell they were pleased. They wanted him to take even more

examinations. To sit for interviews. On an entirely different floor this time, the 20th,

and

But there his memory stopped. Like a vault whose heavy metal door had swung

suddenly shut, his mind would yield nothing more.

Get ready.

Kevin opened his eyes and looked up. There was a large circular clock on the far

wall of this room, near the ceiling. It showed 8:15, and that seemed right; the sunlight

coming through the windows had an early-morning slant to it. He noticed, too, that theclocks red hand the seconds hand seemed to be broken. It was stuck at :07, not

moving.

There was another shout from outside, from the hallway.

What?

The red hand jumped, and this tiny movement, even from all the way across the

room, startled him.

:08.

The shout had the same high-pitched, energetic sound as the first time, but now it

came with a different timber. A different boy. Perhaps answering the first call, but

what sort of conversation would have such chasms of silence between exchanges?

Kevin returned his attention to the red hand. It seemed to be stuck again, resting

now on :08.

Not a good feature for a classroom, he thought. A clock that doesnt move.

Its over here, you moron!

The red hand on the clock jumped again.

:09.

No its not!

:10.


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The classroom door opened, and a young boy burst in, thirteen or fourteen years

old, stumbling as if he had been shoved. He was lean and springy, and he collided

with the side of a file cabinet at the back corner of the room without seeming to notice

the impact. He straightened up. He was wearing loafers, khaki pants, a white dress

shirt, a blue tie, and a blue blazer. He turned and saw Kevin, and his expression

registered the barest hint of interest. He gave a casual wave. Mr. Brooks?

Kevin frowned. And nodded.

Shit. He knows my name.

It is, the boy shouted, this time at the open door. This is the right room. Come

on.

As though this were the signal they had been waiting for, twenty-four more boys

came barreling through the door like marbles coming down a chute. They ran into

each other, ran into the walls, and stumbled over the desks and chairs as if these were

obstacles that had been suddenly thrown into their paths. The noise they made was

high and loud and happy, like the sound of a pack of good-natured dogs being

released into the clover fields for their daily run. Barking for the joy of barking.

Shoving and shouting and punching one another on the shoulder and in the stomach,

they treated each other with a level of physical disrespect that could be considered a

sign of affection only by predatory pack animals and young boys.

They were enjoying themselves.

Kevin watched them with a numb fascination. They looked, he thought, virtually

identical to one another. They were all wearing the same khaki pants and the same

white shirt and the same blue blazer. Some of their neckties, at least, were distinct.

Green ones, yellow ones, different patterns.

He glanced once more at the clock. The red hand was moving just fine now.

Ticking along, marking the seconds.

After two minutes of jostling and jockeying for position, each boy found a deskand a seat of his own. And then, after another minute of chatter that filled the room

and somehow amplified itself as the seconds ticked by, something in the air shifted.

They seemed all at once to notice Kevin sitting behind his desk. They fell silent.

They waited.


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Now they watched him carefully, as if he had crept into the room intending to

ambush them.

Kevin stared back at them, and then he looked down for the first time at his own

desk. There was a phone there, and it was a good-looking device. A slim slab of glass

with a crisp screen and no visible buttons. It was already turned on, and the screen

showed the date and time in large, blue, clearly visible type.

8:17 AM

9/17/2011

Kevins breath caught in his throat again.

September?

It made enough sense. September was when school began. And here they all were,

decked out in their pressed white shirts and their blue blazers, watching him, waiting

to see what kind of teacher he would be.

Pushover? No nonsense? Stone cold bastard?

It didnt matter. He didnt care what they thought. What mattered was that this

could notbe September. His last memory going up the elevator to the 20th floor in

that licensure building had been from June. And that left three solid months

unaccounted for.

Three months completely gone.

The students were still watching him. Still waiting and assessing. Kevin looked

down at the desk again, and he saw a neat stack of papers directly in front of him. The

first sheet was dated 9/17, and it saidAlgebra 1, Chapter 1, at the top of the page.

All of these things had been written out in his own handwriting.

How nice.

He took another breath, and then he stood. He looked behind him, found a red dry-

erase marker in the metal tray below the white-board, and turned back to the class.

I may not remember how I got here, Kevin thought. But I can definitely teach an

introduction to Algebra.

Take out your notebooks, he said. There was a collective rustling as the students

did as they were told. He glanced down again at the lesson plan he had evidently

prepared for himself. This should be easy enough. Were going to start with


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Something distracted him, and he stopped and looked up from the desk. One of the

boys in the third row on the far right was murmuring something to his neighbor.

Hey.

The boy did not look up. Still talking.

Hey.

The boy noticed him. He stopped talking. There was a little grin on his face.

Kevin put the lesson plan down and fixed the boy with a cold stare. I dont know

you, Kevin said. His voice was very quiet. And you dont know me. But lets make

this our introduction.

Okay, the boy said. His eyes had gone very still, but the smile was still there.

When Im speaking, you dont talk. You dont whisper, you dont chat, you dont

do a single thing except watch and listen. From the look of the room and your

uniforms, this is a private school, which means I can throw you against a wall if I feel

like it. Im having what you might call a bumpy morning so far. Dont make it any

bumpier for me, all right? Because Ill take it out on you.

The boy nodded slowly. His smile was gone. The silence in the room was absolute,

and Kevin was suddenly aware, for the first time, of his own size relative to these

boys. He was a few inches over six feet, and somewhere north of 220 pounds,

depending on the day. They didnt let just anybody play quarterback on the UNH

football team, after all.

He could see it in their eyes, could almost see them putting a mental check mark

next to his name.

Mr. Brooks: stone cold bastard.

Fine, Kevin thought. Thats a role Im willing to play with enthusiasm.

Lets get going, he said, picking up his lesson plan again. There was no more

murmuring this time.

He got to work.


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We Want Him Marked

Kevin Brooks still did not understand what was going on or where he had been, or

what he was doing but his understanding was, for the moment, irrelevant. His

purpose had already been decided for him. And while he was busy teaching his first

period Algebra class, six men were making their way down the stairs of a garage a

half-mile away.

Unlike Kevin, these men knew exactly what they were doing.

Now the six of them sat hidden, cramped, and hot in the semi-dark of a

windowless rear cargo space. They were in the back of a white Ford e250 super-duty

van. The small overhead florescent was on, but the black clothes they were wearing

soaked up the light and made the shadows seem larger. Nothing moved. The van was

parked in the third sub-basement of an underground garage on First Avenue between

58th and 59th street in Manhattan, and the only other person in the garage at that

moment was a bored attendant at street level, dozing in his booth, his feet propped up

on a small television showing a woman doing calisthenics on an empty beach.

Nevertheless, the six men in the back of the van spoke in low voices. The

Organizer was explaining the job.

Youll have until next Friday, he said. Ten days from now, minus about a half-

hour. Go time at approximately 8 AM, depending on arrival.

They waited silently. After a minute, one of the others raised his head and stared at

the overhead light.

The Planner.

Well need a pickup and three more vans, he said. Vans should be the same

make as this one, but two of them need secondary controls installed. Remotes.

Tracked and fully armored. Video inside and out, 360-degree coverage.

The Organizer was typing quietly on a touch pad he had pulled from one of the

countless pockets on his pants. He nodded along.


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Well also need workups on every person at the school, the Planner went on. I

want them all.

Keep going.

A schedule for parents day itself, obviously. Which classes the boy has, where

Billaud is expected to be. But also where his fathers coming from. We want him

marked before he even arrives. Typical morning patterns, if there are any. Standard

entry point, and a secondary.

Good. What else?

For the surrounding area, we

Wait, why four vehicles?

The Planner stopped speaking. He turned slowly to face the man who had

interrupted, one of the Guns. The Organizer looked at him, too. They both stared at

him. The silence was heavy. It seemed to grow hotter in the van.

The Gun shrugged helplessly. I dont understand, he said, sounding cautious

now. Its too many moving parts. Why would we need more than this van? Its only

going to be one man, and hes

The Organizer held up a hand. Quiet. He looked away from the Gun and stared

at the black rubber floor of the van, as though considering something deeply

troubling. Youre not Gun One, he said, without looking up.

The Gun blinked. No, Gun Two, I

Gun One?

Sir.

The Organizer lifted his head. He gave Gun One a look.

There was very little room to move inside the van, but Gun One did not hesitate.

He leaned forward briskly, lifting and cocking his arm so that his elbow came out to

one side. Then he pushed backward quickly and powerfully, driving the flat of his

elbow into Gun Twos unprotected face. There was a wet sound as Gun Twos nose

and upper lip were crushed and split, and then, an instant later, a dull thud as the back

of his head struck the side wall of the van.

Gun Two shut his eyes and opened his mouth for air, but he did not make any

sounds of his own. No cries of pain or distress. He put both hands up slowly, his eyes


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still closed, and he focused on breathing. He spread his fingers out like a blind man

preparing to navigate his way through an unfamiliar room. Gun One returned to his

ready state, and did not look at him. After another moment, Gun Two put his hands

back down onto his lap, and then he opened his eyes. He made no move to examine

his own nose or lips, or even to wipe away the blood that was now streaming down

over his mouth, past his chin, and onto his black shirt.

The Organizer spoke again: Will you be driving a van?

Gun Two waited for an extra second to be sure he was the one being asked. Then

he answered slowly. No. The word came out sounding muffled. Nasal and bloody.

Are you in charge of planning?

No.

What is your role?

Im a Gun.

Which means?

I handle operations. I pick up, I drop off, I neutralize threats, I secure targets.

Excellent. Is understanding required for any of these things?

No.

Do you expect to ask any more questions?

Again the operative known as Gun Two waited, this time for emphasis. No, Sir.The Organizer nodded. He turned his attention back to the Planner. Continue.

Well need a detailed breakdown of local law and emergency services, the

Planner said. He did not seem to have noticed the interruption, nor did he seem

concerned that the man sitting across from him, a man whose knees were less than

four inches from his own, was now laboring to breathe. There was too much blood.

Gun Two was trying to swallow the thick fluid leaking down the back of his throat,

but he was falling behind. Gasping now. Choking.

Stations, the Planner continued. Ill need to know where the nearest police and

fire stations are, along with the standard beat patrol routes. Hospitals, too. Anything

with a siren vehicle.

Gun Twos situation became critical. He lurched forward suddenly, his gag reflex

taking command of his body as the blood moving down his throat interrupted the flow


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of oxygen to his lungs. He tried to sit back, but then he gagged even more violently,

leaning forward and vomiting blood-streaked bile onto the floor of the van. He

dropped down onto his knees, and now the top of his head was bumping up against

the Planners shins. He choked once, vomited again, then took a deep, shuddering

breath. He cleared his throat and spat, adding to the puddle on the floor.

The Organizer made no move to open the doors.

Well need three more drivers, the Planner said, one for the pickup and two for

the other two vans. He cut the air with one hand to indicate he was finished, and the

Organizer tapped a few last notes on his slate before returning it to his pocket.

Gun Two recovered. He got up, settled back into his seat, and took a long, much

clearer-sounding breath. He seemed to be getting enough air. The silence returned,

and the six men retreated into their own heads. One Organizer, one Planner, oneDriver, and three Guns.

They knew their jobs.

They would be ready.


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Big Danny

Kevins first class was only forty minutes long. The boys paid attention, and Kevin

marveled at their ability to transform from shouting, hyperactive kids into quiet,

focused students. Then again, maybe this was just an act they put on for every teacher

on the first day.

The threat of being thrown against a wall probably didnt hurt.

At the end of the period, just as he was putting the homework assignment on the

board, the classroom door opened. In walked a big man with glasses. He had a

briefcase in one hand and a textbook in the other. He saw Kevin, and a wide grin

spread over his face. All set, the man said. Next room.

Kevin stared at him, trying to decide how to respond. The man was young and

strong; he was dressed very formally, in a tweed suit that had been expertly cut to

accommodate his bulky dimensions. The combination of the glasses and the textbook

and the tweed made him look like a teacher, but only barely. Kevin had the

impression that this man might have been a shot-putter before he took up teaching. Or

maybe a piano-mover.

Thanks, Kevin said, nodding as if everything were fine. I think Ive misplaced

my schedule. Do you know how Id find out what room Im going to next?

The man gave him a strange look. Kevin? he said slowly. You okay?

Christ,another person who knows my name.

He held out his hand. Your name one more time?

The man came forward, the grin back on his face. Daniel Fisher. Danny. He

spoke with sing-song sarcasm, and shook Kevins hand with elaborate formality. Mr.

Fisher, I should say, he added, glancing at the class. And youre Mr. Brooks, yes?

Kevin tried to return the smile. Tried to go along with the idea that they were only

putting on a show for the students. A little introduction show. He wondered how long

he had actually known this man. Theyre all yours, Kevin said, nodding at the class.


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Danny Fisher nodded, his grin as wide as ever. Yes they are, he said. Then he

pointed at the little stack of papers on the desk. As for the schedule, didnt you say

you were going to keep it with you for the first day?

Kevin sighed with relief. He picked up the stack and found his schedule on the

bottom. Second period, he said to himself. 503.

Right across the way, Danny said, pointing with his chin. Ill be following you

in there next period.

Kevin nodded. He slipped the cell-phone into his pocket, stuffed the stack of

papers between the pages of the teachers-edition Algebra book on his desk, and then

checked around for anything else that might belong to him. Bag? Wallet?

Apparently not.

He headed for the door.

Danny gave him a cheerful little wave, and then he turned to the class. His grin

evaporated. Now, Danny said, in a stern, booming voice, and twenty-five teenaged

boys shrank back in their seats. As you heard, I am Mr. Fisher. And I am not nearly

as nice as Mr. Brooks. Were going to be reading some serious literature in English

class this year.

Kevin walked out the door and across the hall, and he found room 503. He went in

and found twenty-five more eighth graders, the entire group seemingly identical to the

first. Khakis and shirts and ties and blazers. As the door closed, he could still hear

Danny Fisher putting the fear of God into his students. Skip an assignment and Ill

turn into your worst nightmare, he heard Danny say.

Kevin walked to the front of his new room. Im Mr. Brooks, he said, trying to

remind himself to go a little easier this time on any trouble-makers. This is Algebra

1.

He glanced at the clock at the back of the room.

This one seemed to be working normally.

Youre supposed to be doing something.

Get ready.


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He shook his head involuntarily, like a horse shaking off a fly. He clenched his

teeth together. Then he turned quickly to the whiteboard, trying to make it look as if

he had been searching for a marker.

Well figure everything out in a few hours, he thought. Give me a minute. Ive got

things to do.

This seemed to work. The panicky voice in his head fell silent once more. He

started his Algebra lecture again, from the beginning.

Notebooks out, he said.


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Its Impossible

At precisely 10 AM, the rear doors of the white Ford e250 super-duty van opened

slowly. The Organizer, a tall, fit man wearing all-black fatigues, climbed carefully out

of the back, followed by a shorter, stockier man, also wearing black fatigues. The

Driver. Both men moved with the controlled, cautious manner of those who cannot be

sure how their limbs will respond after an extended period of sitting. The Driver shut

the doors behind him. The Organizers mouth opened and his nostrils flared as he took

in a deep breath; he tasted the garage air, rubber and oil and aerosolized diesel, all so

sweet after the vomit-tainted atmosphere of the van. The Driver walked to the front of

the vehicle and climbed in.

The Organizer gave the side of the van a little knock with one fist, and it pulled out

of the parking space, drove past him, and disappeared up the ramp leading to the exit.

After taking another minute to let the feeling return to his legs, the Organizer pulled a

cell phone from one of his pockets. He glanced at the signal readout, and then he

began walking up the same curved ramp the van had taken. Toward the surface.

When he was near ground level, he lifted the phone to his ear.

Good morning, he said after a moment, still walking. He was almost at the

garage entrance now, and there were other cars driving past him, heading out. Yes,

Sir. Well be set. On schedule.

Another pause.

Well need to bring on three more Drivers, the Organizer said. And several

more Guns. He stopped at the exit to the garage and leaned his back against the side

of the building there. He was facing east, and he could see the river on the far side of

F.D.R. Drive. Then Roosevelt island past that. The sun was rising high in the sky, itslight beating down onto the green of the island. Correct, he said, and now he

straightened up. His voice took on a tone of added precision. Every employee. Well

know every threat within 48 hours.

A longer pause now. And a frown.


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Bullshit

Danny appeared at Kevins door at the end of the second period. As promised.

Mr. Brooks, he said, still in that overly formal tone. The grin was back on his

face.

Mr. Fisher. Kevin collected his few possessions, then turned back to Danny.

Theres nothing on my schedule for this block, he said.

Lounge on the third floor, Danny explained briskly. And then he gave him

another look. You really are out of it, he said under his breath. Sure youre okay?

Kevin nodded. No sweat, he said, and walked quickly out of the room. He found

the stairwell in the hall, and once he had made it to the third floor he found a door

without any numbers on it. Clearly, this was not a room where students were meant to

go. He knocked once and walked in slowly.

The teachers lounge was a very tight space. There was a snack table in the middle

surrounded by three armchairs, as well as a small refrigerator in the far corner. Brown

carpeting covered the floor. Two of the chairs were already occupied, and the men

sitting there looked toward the door as Kevin entered. One of them gave a little grunt

of forbearance. Mother of God, he said. Another new guy? This man was

overweight, sloppily dressed, and tired-looking. His tie hung low and loose on his

shirt, and his gray hair lay in thin strands across the top of his head.

Oh, shut up, Ronny, said the other teacher. He stood up quickly. Make an

effort, he added. This man was young and very thin, and he was reaching out now,

simultaneously waving Kevin over and trying to shake hands. Come on and have a

seat. Im Jean Lengard. Biology. This is Ronny.

Ron, said the older man, who made no effort to rise from his chair. He had his

head propped up in one hand, and his eyes were fixed on a point somewhere among

the dust and crumbs of the lounges brown rug. If Kevin had not heard him speak, he

might have thought he was dozing.

I just call him that to annoy him, Jean explained.


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Overkill, Ron grunted, still staring at the rug. Everythingyou do annoys me.

Hush.

Im Kevin Brooks. He shook hands with Jean and sat down in the third armchair.

Ronald Clemson, the older man said, still without looking up. Art,Photography, Graphic Design. Youre teaching math?

Thats right.

Eighth grade?

As far as I can tell.

Ron gave a grudging nod at this, as though being a math teacher fell, in his

opinion, at least one step above the position of gas station attendant. Good thing,

Ron added. Guy before you only lasted a year. He was a jackass. Youre not a

jackass, are you Kevin?

And here Ronald Clemson looked up for the first time, fixing Kevin with a watery,

red-eyed stare that was startling in its clarity. Kevin could see fierce intelligence

behind his eyes.

Hope not, Kevin said.

Uh-huh. Ron seemed unimpressed. Where were you before this?

Tanner and Trevor.

Never heard of it. What kind of name for a school is that?Jean tried to interrupt. Ronny, honey. Easy. Its

Its not a school, Kevin cut in smoothly. He was enjoying the conversation,

despite Clemsons tone. The whiff of confrontation was making his head feel better.

Clearer. And that panicky voice from an hour ago the one that had been so worried

about him being ready had gone completely silent.

At least for the moment.

Ron was still staring at him. Not a school? Explain.

Its a brokerage. I ran tech at one of their subsidiary hedge funds for a few years.

You were a broker?

I created the trading algorithms for the fund. The system for telling the computers

what and when to buy and sell. But sure, a broker.

Whatever. You any good at it?


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Jean tried to pipe in again. Ronny. Honestly, now. Give the boy a few minutes to

settle in first. Youve got all year to be rude to him.

Its okay, Kevin said. He turned back to Clemson, and he kept his expression

steady. Ronny, he said slowly, I was great at it.

Uh-huh, Ron said again. Still not convinced, his tone said. Or at least pretending

not to be. How old are you?

Twenty-eight.

Ron smiled. Twenty-eight, he repeated. He said the number as though it left a

bad taste in his mouth. How wise you must be. How seasoned. Did you manage to

put away any spare cash while you were busy ruling the world down on Wall Street?

Kevin affected ignorance. Spare cash?

Clemson fell for it. He let a little laugh escape him. Did yousave anything, Kevin

my boy? Because now youre a teacher.

Kevin waited a moment before answering. Oh, I understand now. He kept his

voice low. You mean, do I have anything in the bank?

Exactly, Kevin. Because you cant just

Two-point-five million, Kevin said. And he shrugged. Last I checked, that is.

But Ive been having a weird day, and its been a long while since I went over the

portfolio. Could be up or down a few hundred thousand. You know how it goes.

Ron opened his mouth, then let it close. There was a drawn-out silence. Then Jean

laughed. He threw his head back, put his hands up like a churchgoer in rapture, and

laughed at the ceiling until there were tears in his eyes. It was a mischievous,

delighted laugh. Oh, I like this boy! Jean sang out. He wiped his eyes and then

pointed at Clemson, whose face had gone red. This boy just took you home, Ronny.

Took you home and put you in the drawer.

Ron was still staring at Kevin. He seemed to be weighing his options. Bullshit,

he said finally.

I wouldnt bullshit you, Ronny.

Youve got over two million dollars in the bank?

I do.

Right this minute?


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Partial transcript from a closed hearing before the budget subcommittee for the

Secret Service (New Initiatives Division)

Department of Homeland Security

September 17, 2011:

Q: But Dr. Levoir, you of all people should know how carefully we control our annual

financial distributions. Why should we consider these new techniques? There are

currently no fewer than 14 programs slated for cutbacks, and yet you suggest that

funding is now necessary for this unorthodox and completely untested initiative. We

are not supermarket consumers here, Dr. Levoir we are not drawn to the new label

for its own sake. And youll concede, I think, that terrorism is nothing new.

A: I agree in principle, Senator. But the meaning of that word has changed. Terrorism

no longer means men with knives and bombs. It means men with anything. Men who

will use whatever tools are available to accomplish their mission.

Q: I dont think I see your point.

A: Terrorism is creative now. More than ever, its inventive and unpredictable. An

I.E.D. is exactly what it sounds like something that has been improvised.

Q: Dr. Levoir, few people are worried about encountering road-side bombs on their

way to work.

A: And yet this is exactly my point. We have an irrationally inflated sense of security.

Terrorism, meanwhile, continues to evolve. It has come to a turning point, a moment

of transformation. And the U.S. should be willing to embark on a creative,

transformative campaign of its own.


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Q: Fine. So explain the initiative.

A: It is as follows: we will be creating scrubbed agents. In fact, we have the first one

moving into position now.

Q: Yes, Ive read your abstract. But Im asking you to explain. Lets start with the

term scrubbed.


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expression changed. There was a subtle brightening, a slow lifting of his features; in

another man, this change might have signaled happiness. Jean, on the other hand, was

more overt. He simply threw his arms open and beamed. Ms. Beck! he sang, as if

welcoming a long lost relative.

Jean, for the last time, call me Emily. There are no students in here. Good

morning, Ronald. And hello ?

Kevin stood and turned for an introduction, and suddenly he found himself off-

balance. A moment ago he had been the master in this room. Not that being the alpha

dog in a place like this was such a difficult thing; he was young, he was smart, and he

was probably one of the few financially secure adults in the entire building. Plus, he

had quashed Rons hazing attempt andhad managed to turn Jean into an unabashed

fan in a space of five minutes. But now the game had changed.He had just re-acquired his second-fiddle status.

The woman before him was young, younger than he was, probably by three or four

years. She couldnt have been over twenty-five. She was dressed very simply in a

light blue skirt and a white blouse, and she had her brown hair pulled back in a bun.

There was nothing Kevin could put his finger on

But there was no denying she was beautiful.

And there was something about the energy in her face. Her eyes were so bright,

and her expression so animated, that she looked as if she might have just witnessed

the birth of a child.

Or delivered that child herself, for all Kevin knew.

He committed himself to the task of recalling his own name. Kevin Brooks, he

said finally, holding out a hand.

Emily Beck. She shook his hand and gave him a little nod, and then she turned

and went to the refrigerator in the corner, where she retrieved a small bag of carrots

before heading back out the door. Recess on the roof, she said simply to the three ofthem, and she left without another word.

The air in the room seemed to cool as the door closed behind her. Jean Lengard

smiled and nodded his head slowly. Lord, he said in a hushed tone, I am deeply in

love with that woman.


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And what about that stuff a minute ago, when he had been so sure he was getting

out of this place? All that stuff about how he didnt care what people thought of him?

Right, but I dont actually want to get fired. That never looks good on a rsum.

And I do want to be a teacher, just not in a school with middle-school kids. High

school first. Then maybe take a few years to get a PhD., so I can do college later.

Either way, it wouldnt hurt to stay here for a little while.

That was what he told himself.

He pushed open the heavy metal door leading to the roof, and he emerged onto a

battlefield. There were at least forty boys up here, 6th and 7th graders with their

blazers off but their shirts and ties still on, and they were sprinting this way and that

while a hail of rubber dodge-balls flew in every direction. The roof itself was paved in

green concrete, enclosed on all sides by a brick wall and a high metal fence. There

was not enough room for this many boys, especially not with them running around at

full speed and rifling rubber balls at each other, but this was, Kevin supposed, exactly

the point. They seemed to be having the time of their lives.

He spotted Emily Beck at the far corner of the enclosure, leaning up against the

brick wall. She was having a conversation with a larger, older woman who Kevin

supposed was Principal Stewart. The two ladies were chatting and smiling and

laughing; neither one appeared distracted by the swarm of sprinting boys and

rocketing rubber projectiles that seemed, at every moment, to miss hitting them by

inches. Kevin noticed one boy standing directly in front of Emily; a moment later he

saw that this same student was about to be hit by another boy holding a ball at close

range. Except that Kevin knew the first boy would likely duck the shot.

Which meant that Emily Beck was about to be pegged.

There was no time to shout a warning, but Kevins concern turned out to be

misplaced. The first boy did notduck. In fact, he stepped into the shot, taking the full

force of a considerable throw straight to the face. There was a sharp, unmistakablespang! sound as the ball met his unprotected head; Emily heard it and stopped her

conversation briefly, to be sure the boy was all right.

The boy staggered for a moment, and Kevin saw him wince as he struggled to fight

off the sting and shock of the impact. But then Emilys hand was on his shoulder, and

she was asking him if he was hurt. The boy gave himself another half-second to bring


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his features under control, and then he turned to face her with a studied expression of

calm and unconcern.

Whats that, Ms. Beck?

A fearsome shot to the head?

Im not sure what you mean.

Well, I can recall the event to which youre referring, but its nothing that should

concern you. As you can see, I am wholly unaffected. I am made from the stuff of the

rock, of the mountain.

Emily Beck smiled at the boy. She gave him a relieved little pat on the head, and

then she sent him on his way. Back to the battlefield.

The student returned to the fold, beaming in reflected glory. He was now running

faster than before, faster than he had ever run. His nose and one cheek were turning an

angry red where the ball had hit him, but he did not seem to notice. The boy who had

hit him, the one who had made the fateful throw in the first place, watched him

closely, and caught his eye. They stopped and stood and looked at each other across

the expanse of green concrete, both of them with their tongues far back in their

mouths, trying so hard not to smile.

The chaos of the game, which had decreased imperceptibly over the last few

seconds, resumed.

The principal noticed Kevin standing near the door, and she waved and moved

toward him. Emily stayed where she was, putting a hand up briefly in greeting. Ms.

Stewart walked straight across the enclosure, unflinching, like a general who has been

wounded so many times that the sound of gunfire has lost its power to startle. She

came to him and greeted him warmly, her large, strong hands nearly the size of his

own.

Kevin. Wonderful to see you again.

He smiled and nodded and said yes, of course, you too. And hoped, privately, thatthey had not gotten to know each other too well over the last three months. The

principal was a big, tan-skinned woman with an unmistakable air of authority.

Confidence and intelligence shone in her eyes. She spoke with the casual assurance of

one who has been in charge of everything from the very beginning. She put him

immediately at ease.


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I dont think you have to be up here right now, she said. But I do appreciate

you going out of your way to come say hello on the first day. Its thoughtful of you.

Not at all.

How were the first couple of periods? Kids okay?

He nodded. Good boys.

Of course. And whats next?

Kevin hesitated. He had to remind himself that the principal was not asking him

about his life. Was not asking him how he planned to figure out what in Gods name

had happened to him over the last three months; or why he seemed to be afflicted with

some sort of relapsing-remitting hysterical anxiety, complete with voices; or why time

itself had apparently decided that moving steadily forward was no longer a

requirement.

She was only making conversation. Only asking about his next class.

I think I left my schedule down in the lounge.

Ms. Stewart smiled gently. Then I think you should be getting back down there.

To find out. Yes?

With that she dismissed him. She turned and strode back across the enclosure, not

looking back. Kevin waited a moment to see if Emily might acknowledge him again,

but she seemed wholly absorbed by the game before her. She was alternately gasping

and shouting with delight as one boy or another performed some feat of bravery or

skill, and the energy of the game had increased dramatically.

He turned and left the way he had come.

When he reached the lounge again he found Danny Fisher already there. Ron and Jean

were picking themselves up, dusting themselves off, preparing for another period of

teaching.

Youd better get going, Danny said when he saw him.

Kevin shook his head, not understanding.


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The lab, Danny said. I saw your schedule. Youre on the ground floor, all the

way at the far side of the building. Youll be late.

Lab?

Danny gave him another one of his sarcastic, knowing grins, and he clapped him

affectionately on the shoulder. Kevin wondered if the man realized how much force

he was putting behind this casual gesture.

Hed knock me down with that if I werent squarely planted.

Not about to teach computer programming without a computer lab, are you?

Kevins eyebrows shot up. His job was almost starting to sound interesting.

And the kids going to be there, Danny added. You were going to show up

early, remember?

No, I dont remember. I dont remember shit, Danny.

Which kid?

The kid. You were so excited about him, the son of that big shot. The engineer

you kept trying to tell me about, Pascal Bow? So smart that even his grade-school kid

would probably know more about computers than you. Thats what you said.

Kevin put his hands up. Now Danny had his full attention. PascalBillaud?

Right, thats what I said. A real big shot, right?

His son goes to this school?Now Im interested. Fully interested.

His sons in your class, Danny corrected him. He glanced at his watch, then

back at Kevin. Your 8th grade Java Programming class that starts in about 45

seconds. You need to go all the way downstairs, then take a left and keep going until

you

Kevin grabbed his papers off the snack table, and he was out the door before

Danny could finish speaking.

This is the end of the sample.

If you would like to read more, you can find the entire book at:

http://www.amazon.com/author/m.c.soutter

Undetectable Free Sample

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